Shadow Pass: A Novel of Suspense
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Deep in the Russian countryside, a thirty-ton killing machine known officially as T-34 is being developed in total secrecy. Its inventor is a rogue genius whose macabre death is considered an accident only by the innocent. Suspecting assassins everywhere, Stalin brings in his best—if least obedient—detective to solve a murder that’s tantamount to treason. Answerable to no one, Inspector Pekkala has the dictator’s permission to go anywhere and interrogate anyone. But the closer Pekkala gets to answers, the more questions he uncovers—first and foremost, why is the state’s most dreaded female operative, Commissar Major Lysenkova, investigating the case when she’s only assigned to internal affairs?
In the shadows of one of history’s most notorious regimes, Pekkala is on a collision course with not only the Soviet secret police but the USSR’s deadliest military secrets. For what he’s about to unearth could put Stalin and his Communist state under for good—and bury Pekkala with them.
thing was impossible. Now, Revolutionary Guards were in control of St. Petersburg: It was only a matter of time before they advanced on Tsarskoye Selo. “Heading out?” asked Kolchak, as he shook Pekkala’s hand. “Soon,” replied Pekkala. “All I have to do is pack my bag.” “Traveling light,” remarked Kolchak. He was trying to sound jovial, but the anger at this delay penetrated his voice. “Not so for you,” replied Pekkala, as he glanced at the wagons. “No indeed,” sighed Kolchak. With a sharp
it emerged not from his mouth but in vibrations through his massive chest. As he spoke to Pekkala, he removed his cap, revealing a clean-shaven head and a wide forehead which looked as solid as the armor of Nagorski’s tank. “This man you saw,” began Pekkala, turning back to Samarin. He was curious as to why they had decided not to pursue him. “He’s gone into the woods,” said Samarin, “but he won’t last long in there.” “Why not?” “Traps,” replied Samarin. “During the construction of the
politeness, allowing the guest to strengthen the tea if he thought it was not brewed correctly. But, out of politeness, Pekkala did not touch it. He merely bent down and breathed in the slightly tarlike scent of pine-smoked tea, which he doubted Babayaga could afford. She poured him a cup, taking the strong-brewed tea from the pot at the top of the samovar and diluting it with the water stored in the lower section. Then she handed it to him. “That glass belonged to my husband,” she said. She
man’s advice. The engine seemed to groan. The headlights flickered. It was as if the car had swooned. “Oh, no, you don’t,” snapped Pekkala. As if to spite him, the engine chose that moment to die completely. Then there was only the sound of the tires rolling to a standstill as he steered the car to the side of the road. Pekkala got out and looked around. He cursed in Finnish, which was a language well equipped for swearing. “Jumalauta!” he roared into the darkness. The road stretched out
sent to the factory in Stalingrad.” “The prototype? What about it?” “The tank has not arrived. I called to check. You know, in case there were questions.” “It’s a long way to Stalingrad from here. Perhaps the truck broke down.” “No, Inspector. I’m afraid that’s not it. You see, when I called them, they told me they had never put in a request for the tank.” Slowly, Pekkala lowered the fuel cans to the ground. “But they must have. You saw the requisition form, didn’t you?” “Yes. I have it